


Birthday Treats

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a tradition,” Sherlock said.  “Every year Donovan and Gregson organise a surprise party for Lestrade that is only a surprise because he has a tendency to forget his own birthday.  Every year he vows he won’t get drunk, but they distract him by getting him to talk about his Uni days, then keep pushing drinks in his hand until he’s blindingly pissed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Treats

“Um, is Lestrade okay?” John asked Sherlock in an undertone.

It had been a rather surprising evening.  John had come home from the surgery only to have Sherlock push him out the door again, saying they had to go meet Lestrade.  John had been expecting something along the lines of “We have to go meet Lestrade for a case he can’t solve.”  What he had not been anticipating was “We have to go meet Lestrade’s team for Lestrade’s birthday surprise party that Donovan is organising and I feel obligated to attend for reasons I refuse to tell you, even though parties make me even grumpier than usual.”

Lestrade seemed to be enjoying his party, at least.  The guests mostly consisted of some of his closest friends from the Yard, as well as a few acquaintances from outside of work.  The birthday boy himself was currently holding court at a large round table in the corner of the pub; Sherlock and John were sitting a little ways away, subconsciously trying to distance themselves from the merriment.  Lestrade was telling the group some story that apparently required visual aids in the form of every once in a while he would reach out and grab Donovan’s breasts.  Donovan, though a little embarrassed, did not seem to think this was in any way out of the ordinary.  John was a little confused and concerned, hence his whispered question to Sherlock.

“It’s a tradition,” Sherlock said.  “Every year Donovan and Gregson organise a surprise party for Lestrade that is only a surprise because he has a tendency to forget his own birthday.  Every year he vows he won’t get drunk, but they distract him by getting him to talk about his Uni days, then keep pushing drinks in his hand until he’s blindingly pissed.”

“Fair enough,” John said, “but what’s with the grabbing?  How has he never been charged with sexual harassment before if he gets like this every year?”

“Why do you think Anderson’s not here,” Sherlock asked, his voice dripping disdain.  “Or Callahan or Twombley?  Anyone who is easily offended doesn’t get invited because everyone knows what Lestrade is like when he gets drunk.”

“So that’s why you wanted to sit all the way over here.”

“Yes. Not that it’ll do much good in the end,” Sherlock said, sipping his beer.  He had been nursing it all evening and it was only half gone; John had been through two lagers already.  John had expected him to be more of a brandy or wine sort of person, when he drank at all (which wasn’t often) but Sherlock explained that the lower alcoholic content of beer was preferable.

Not long after that, Lestrade apparently noticed that they were not having as much fun as the rest of his friends and came over to talk to them.  Well, talk was a rather loose interpretation; drape himself over their shoulders and slur at them might have been more accurate.  John couldn’t help but be amused, however, when Lestrade started giving Sherlock grief about his choice of drink, waving the bartender down to order something “more appropriate.”

“Three shots of tequila, please.”  He grinned conspiratorially at John, who couldn’t help but smile back.  The bartender brought over the shot glasses and poured a healthy amount into each, then gave them a salt shaker and lime wedges.  John and Sherlock obediently picked up theirs, then glanced at Lestrade when he did not do the same.

“Naw, ‘m good,” he said, watching Sherlock avidly.  “The third one’s for you, Sunshine.  I know that’s the only beer you’ve had tonight and ‘m gonna get you good an’ drunk.”

Sherlock snorted and downed the shot in his hand, then picked up the second one and tossed it back, too, not even bothering with the lime or salt.  John winced.  Considering how little Sherlock had eaten that day, he was probably going to get “good an’ drunk” a lot faster than anyone anticipated, and John would probably end up having to carry him home.  John drank his own shot a bit more sedately.

Lestrade positioned himself directly behind Sherlock and rubbed his shoulders as he murmured something in Sherlock’s ear that made the consulting detective smile.  Not his usual, condescending smirk, but a genuine, warm smile.  Would wonders never cease?  John glanced over at Lestrade’s friends, wondering what they might think of this, but they were too engrossed in some sort of contest and were not paying attention to the trio at the bar.  John looked over at Lestrade and Sherlock again to find that Lestrade’s hands had migrated northward into Sherlock’s mop of a head and were gently massaging and scratching.  Sherlock’s eyes were closed in what looked like complete feline bliss; John expected him to start purring at any moment.  It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

John excused himself to go to the bathroom; he wasn’t sure why their intimacy was making him so edgy, but he knew he just had to get away from them.  He was pretty certain they didn’t even notice his departure.  He took his time peeing and washing his hands, ignoring the sounds of sex coming from the second stall.  When he made it back into the pub, it was to find that Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” had come on the radio and several people were dancing to it, including most of Lestrade’s party and Sherlock.  It took John’s mind a minute to fully process that: _Sherlock was dancing_.

John edged his way over to the practically deserted table in the corner, trying to figure out why he was so angry.  He was a little too buzzed to deny that, yes, he was a little jealous of Lestrade right now.  Not in… _that_ way, of course, not him, but…well, John had been sharing a flat with Sherlock for almost a year now and he could barely get the man to take out the rubbish.  But here comes Lestrade being all drunk and handsy and now Sherlock was out on the dance floor making a complete fool of himself?  If John had been thinking straight, he would have remembered that Lestrade usually had difficulty getting Sherlock to obey him most of the time, too, but right now all John could think of were the times Sherlock had been moping around the flat only to jump at Lestrade’s text of “we’ve got something for you.”

The song ended and most of Lestrade’s friends began made their way back to the table.  John got up to give someone his seat back, but the man waved him away and gestured that he was going to leave.  He gave Lestrade a hug goodbye, which Lestrade reciprocated with a hearty arse-grope.  John looked away, wishing he hadn’t come over to the table or at least that Sherlock would hurry up and get back; he appeared to be at the bar, ordering more drinks.  Lestrade waved one last goodbye to his friend, then turned his attention to John.  He was giving John such a kicked-puppy look that John wanted to hit him for acting like an overgrown ten-year-old. 

“You’re not having fun,” Lestrade said.

“’Course I am,” John assured him gruffly.  He couldn’t quite bring himself to look Lestrade in the eye.

“No, I can tell you’re not.”  Lestrade looked up as Sherlock pressed a glass of water into his hands.  “Ta, Sunshine.”  He drank it with the same absentminded gusto he had drunk everything else that evening, as though he didn’t care what was going into his stomach, as long as he had a drink in his hand.  He shifted his attention back to John.  “Did I ever tell you about the first time I met Mycroft?”

“Oh, God,” Sherlock said.  “I’ll be back when you’re finished.”

John perked up.  “Why, what happened?  I didn’t know you’d met Mycroft.”

Lestrade waved a hand impatiently.  “I was helping his drug-addicted brother get back on his feet; of course I’ve met Mycroft.  Actually, I’d gotten sick of taking care of Sherlock and had left him to his own devices, which of course led to a near overdose.  Mycroft, the silly bugger, put on this great show with all these CCTV cameras, trying to freak me out or something, then had me taken to an abandoned warehouse and offered me loads of money to keep up my ‘association’ with Sherlock.”

“Sounds about right,” John said.  “Not that different from my first meeting with him, actually.”

“Well, I told him right where he could stick it.  And after all that, he starts hitting on me.”

John nearly choked on his beer.  “What?”

“Yeah.  He’s all ‘Well, even if you’re no longer interested in my brother, maybe we can carry out our own little affair’ or something.  Now, if the circumstances had been different, I might’ve said yes, mind.  He’s not all that bad looking, is Mycroft.  But I was just a year into my marriage and I don’t much like being intimidated.  So I punched him.”

“You didn’t,” John laughed.

“I can assure you he did,” Sherlock put in.  Apparently, he hadn’t been able to stay away for long and had been listening in.  Neither man had noticed him until he spoke up.  “Mycroft was _furious_.  And I think secretly turned on.”

John laughed as he thought about Mycroft with a black eye.  He looked at Lestrade, trying to imagine him angry enough to punch someone, and for the first time that night, John really observed Lestrade.  Not just saw, but _observed_ , like Sherlock was always telling him.

Somebody, probably Donovan, had once told John that Lestrade had been a bit wild back in the day, and that the reason he joined the Yard was because his best mate had been murdered and the police had never caught who did it.  Lestrade had been forced to bring his life under control to fit in with the Force, but his life was anything but controllable.  And the faster it slipped away from him, the more rigid and unbending he became.  His wife’s affairs, Sherlock’s whims, the serial killer loose on the streets of London, the child abducted from his bed in the middle of the night…these were all things Lestrade had to contend with on a daily basis, so who the hell was John to begrudge him this one night of fun and relaxation.  So what if Lestrade wanted to get Sherlock to dance?  So what if Lestrade became a little handsy when he drank?  What should John care if Lestrade was bisexual and didn’t care if his closest friends and colleagues knew?  John should count himself damn lucky to be trusted by such a closed-off man.

And besides, maybe if John and Lestrade teamed up together, they could get Sherlock to do all sorts of things, starting with taking out the rubbish or buying milk every once in a while.

“You wanna dance?” John asked abruptly.

Lestrade looked adorably confused.  “But you’re not…”

“A good dancer?  Yeah, well, I can’t be any worse than Sherlock.”  He stood up and pulled Lestrade onto his feet.  Lestrade broke into a slow smile, then grabbed Sherlock’s hand.

“C’mon, Sunshine.  Let’s show these kids how it’s done.”


End file.
